


The Postmaster and the Woman of Letters

by orphan_account



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett, Supernatural
Genre: Gen, One-Shot, charlie's liberal politics include dismantling capitalism, crossovers, the other hackers she's working with are Q and Hardison and Riddler, them and moist and charlie are my con-artist dream-team tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-26 19:18:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3861634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>* Technically, <i> Moist von Lipwig </i>wasn't a wanted criminal that had been Hanged By The Neck Until Dead, <i>Albert Spangler </i>was; but when the Patrician had your number, you still knew very keenly that he could decide your neck needed a sisal cravat whenever he felt like it.</p><p>† Consisting of a New Yorker with a penchant for riddles and anarcho-communist politics, a freelance 'security consultant' from LA, and the most mysterious of their number, who said he worked in hardware and often complained of a coworker who kept bringing his equipment back broken.</p></blockquote>





	The Postmaster and the Woman of Letters

**Author's Note:**

  * For [detainyou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/detainyou/gifts).



Moist was not at all sure where he was, though a few hours observation in a coffee shop had turned up

  1.        This wasn’t Ankh-Morpork, so
  2.        He wasn’t a wanted criminal here,* also
  3.        The concept of money had gotten so imaginary people were simply using _numbers on cards_ , and
  4.        This nervous young woman with red hair was a con-artist, and her little black device with the glowing screen and the scriv keyboard was the key to the world’s riches.



He slid smoothly into the chair across from her, sliding the wallet of the man that had been accosting her an hour before across the table. He gave his winning smile when she looked up.

‘I believe we are colleagues, though of differing fields.’

She tucked the wallet away. ‘Okay,’ she said cautiously. ‘What do you want?’

‘Teaching,’ he answered, honestly. ‘Show me how to do what you do. I won’t presume to think you’re interested in my kind of work, so I leave the compensation to you.’ He doubted she had a failing government service to revive, in any case; that seemed to be his line of work, nowadays. Not that he couldn’t still pick a pocket or forge a note, but the latter seemed to be impossible here, they’d really gotten this paper money thing perfected. There were shiny bits and the paper wasn’t even paper anymore, there was _stuff_ in it. And the cashiers were using some kind of pen to test notes for forgery. Tricky, but he was _sure_ there were people out there sliding past it… but that wasn’t the profitable effort, now that there were the little cards.

She closed her device and packed it up in her bag, standing. She gave him a dazzling smile. ‘Kiss my hand,’ she said, and he caught on immediately.

‘As you wish,’ he flirted, and was surprised at the note of genuine pleasure in her laughter, the tilt of her head. He followed her outside.

‘So what’s your name? Or the alias you’re using now.’

‘Oh, please, I think we should be honest with one another. I find it helps the job.’

‘You could be lying.’

He stopped at a corner, waiting for the light to turn with her. ‘I could.’

‘I’m Charlie. That’s not my birth name, but it’s my real name.’

Moist contemplated this, and thought on giving her an alias. They all came to mind easily; but he’d meant it about honesty, and coughed slightly. ‘Moist.’

She looked at him. ‘…Oh my god,’ she said. ‘Moist? That’s your name?’

‘Unfortunately—’

Her eyes were wide, and she squealed, hugging him. ‘Ohmy _gawd_ you’re my _idol!_ I was nineteen when I met you and—I mean, not _met_ you met you, but—hang on, I’ll show you in a second.’ She had walked across the street while she spoke, and Moist followed, now with a mixture of caution and curiosity. She opened the passenger door, motioning when he hesitated. Seeing no other alternative, he folded into the car. It was a private place to talk, anyway. She went around the side, and he surreptitiously checked the back seat before relaxing fractionally.

She closed the door, and twisted to root through one of the many crates in the back seat, until she came up with a small paperback book, tossing it in his lap. _Terry Pratchett_ was blazoned across the top of the red cover, and in the centre was _a picture of Moist on Boris_. At the bottom was the title _Going Postal_.

He quickly opened the book, leafing through it to make sure there were, in fact, words on the pages. It had to be a joke, some kind of strange, surreal (and vaguely cruel, though he couldn’t think how) joke…

> _‘ “Try Adora Belle Dearheart sometime,” said the woman._
> 
> _“Ah. That’s not a funny name,” said Moist._
> 
> _“Quite,” said Adora Belle Dearheart. “I now have no sense of humor whatsoever. Well, now that we’ve been appropriately human toward one another, what exactly was it you wanted?” ’_

That was, to the best of his memory (which was sharp, but not perfect and prone to getting holes in it), _exactly_ what she’d said to him. He jumped ahead.

> _‘ “Last Night You Asked Me To Obtain A Suit Fit For A Postmaster, Sir. You Gave Me Very Precise Instructions,” said the golem. “Fortunately My Colleague Stitcher 22 Was Working At The Theatrical Costumers. It Is Hanging On The Door.”_
> 
> _And the golem had even found a mirror. It wasn’t very big, but it was big enough to show Moist that if he was dressed any sharper he’d cut himself as he walked._
> 
> _“Wow,” he breathed. “El Dorado or what?” ’_

He _remembered_ that line, because it was too embarrassing _not_ to remember. He flipped to the end, just to see _where_ it ended. To his surprise, it ended with something he’d never known. He skipped backward, and read the fate of his short-lived nemesis, and _laughed_ , and it was slightly hysterical after the initial burst, and the redhead next to him hesitantly put a hand on his shoulder.

‘I guess it’s kind of startling, finding out there are books about you—oh, crap, sorry, I didn’t mean to make you laugh harder! Um, um, do you need a paper bag or—crap.’ She rooted around in the crates in the back for a minute, before suddenly Moist was being sprayed by a small jet of water. He startled, breathing normally again.

‘Sorry!’ she fiddled with the nozzle of the spray-bottle. ‘I meant to mist you.’

‘I’m okay,’ Moist assured her, wiping his cheek and taking a deep breath, sighing. ‘How many of these are there?’

‘With you in them? Three—but I don’t really have the third one, I read it online. I just have Going Postal and Making Money.’

‘Ah,’ Moist said, then coughed slightly. ‘Online?’ he asked, figuring if she’d read this novel, they’d established he could ask questions about every day words that had been eluding his understanding.

She spent the better part of the next hour explaining the internet and _wireless networks_ to him, and her knowledge of the Clacks was really admirable. Moist was not one of the deeply-specialised souls that truly knew how the Clacks worked, but running it meant he’d picked up a lot, over the years. Apparently she was a Clacks jammer—only they called them ‘hackers’, here. Then she asked him if he wanted to ‘pull a heist’ and that led to a discussion of currency.

‘So,’ Moist said, hardly able to believe it, ‘it’s just… _imaginary?_ People _believe_ in money like it’s a… a _deity?_ And none of it actually _exists?’_

‘Yup. Late-stage capitalism means the whole system is breaking down. I’m working with a couple other people† to help drag it down faster. We coordinate.’

‘Globally?’

‘Uh-huh. You want in?’

The old thrill was back again, and Moist let it show on his face, feeling shivery and tingly all at once, his pulse quickening in the familiar, addictive cocktail of fear and rapture.

_‘Yes.’_

**Author's Note:**

> * Technically, _Moist von Lipwig_ wasn't a wanted criminal that had been Hanged By The Neck Until Dead, _Albert Spangler_ was; but when the Patrician had your number, you still knew very keenly that he could decide your neck needed a sisal cravat whenever he felt like it.
> 
> † Consisting of a New Yorker with a penchant for riddles and anarcho-communist politics, a freelance 'security consultant' from LA, and the most mysterious of their number, who said he worked in hardware and often complained of a coworker who kept bringing his equipment back broken.


End file.
